Monday, December 19, 2011

Sweetest Dard e Dil-li :))

A few hours more than twenty-four spent in the wintery warmth of Delhi were very special and extremely emotional as each passing moment connected family fragments in a happy reunion.
The platform was cold, foggy and dusty at about noon as my younger son and I alighted from the comfortable confines of the airconditioned compartment of the train that brought us from Lucknow to New Delhi.

The morning I spent in Delhi was invitingly sunny and the fragrance of nostalgia filled every little space around me. As my son navigated his way expertly through the majestic blocks of Connaught Place, I remembered the time, not so long ago, when I used to take the children around these very exquisite corridors during our winter holidays in Delhi...shopping, eating and having so much fun.

Commuting in those days used to be a nightmare in Delhi. But now the Metro is amazingly swift and convenient. We had to buy a couple of things before reaching my cousin's place in Jamia Nagar. Having done that we got on to the Metro. Everything perfect so far. But within a few minutes of being in the Metro my son realised that his wallet was missing.
The money he was carrying and his cards were gone....and we were like, "Oh! My God....what are we going to do now???!!!!!!!"

Frantic calls to get the cards blocked were made simultaneously as trying to get an FIR lodged for the missing things. Then a visit to the nearest branch of our bank to arrange for cash. All this took up most of the afternoon.

At my cousin's place everyone was waiting over "lunch". When we finally reached her place tucked away from the hustle and bustle of a polluted over-populated Delhi, the sun had already begun calling it a day. We were all ravenously hungry. Freshening up was hurried. But the sumptuous supper that followed was deliberate, lazy and so completely engrossing. Endless cups of tea and an unending chatter came to a halt as tired bodies succumbed to the coziness of luxurious silk razais in a room filled with the fagrance of affection and fondness.
After a comfortable night, morning came rather gradually and indolently as the Sun fought its way through the stubborn fog.

For the "breakfast" at another cousin's place at Akbar Road, we reached half an hour before noon!
The vastly spread out green lawn was filled abunduntly with the reclining rays of the Sun, mellowed in intensity as if shivering in the face of a bully called Winter!!!
The paradoxes of the morning were no less amazing as freezing arms bonded in warm embraces, and in the biting cold of the North we relished steaming hot idlis, dosas and sambhar perfected with rich authentic aroma of the South.
As the Sun spread its rays over the plentiful flower beds there was colourful resplendence all around.
We were in another world, where no dust, no pollution and no frosty feeling could ever reach...

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Dev Anand: 1923 --- forever

Sunday 4th Dec.
I was getting ready to go to a place that, to me is as dear and sacred as any place of worship. 

Whenever I pass Mehboob Studios I have this craving to go inside and pay my respects to all those wondrous men and women whom I've revered like prophets of Art and Creativity. 
But apart from my uncontrolled craze for Hindi films, there was nothing else that could possibly justify my presence at that monument which is symbolic of a glorious era Bollywood itself perhaps longs to go back to.

But the previous day, Saturday, 3rd Dec had been astounding. 
I had actually walked past the gate and strolled around that extraordinary palce, where Bollywood History was shaped. 

Films like "Mother India" and "Guide" were nurtured. Sheer nostalgia it was. And I did not want to come out of it.

Times Literary Carnival was an absolutely gratifying experience. Quenching the thirst for good poetry and prose were Gulzar Kalra, Swanand Kirkire, Anurag Kashyap, Kabir Bedi, Fatima Bhutto, Mohammed Hanif.

One was almost spoilt for choice and so I will not even count the presence of the likes of Shobha De and Suhel Seth and many others !!!

Sunday was going to be interesting too. And I did not wish to miss even one session. Swallowing my dry toasts with tea, I switched on the television to catch the morning news just before leaving. 
And that was the end of my Sunday plans ...

Time suddenly froze. 
Nothing seemed to matter.
Just a stoical numbness took over me as the news reader announced Dev Anand's death.

I was being made to realise that the man who symbolised every beautiful colour of life, and most importantly life itself, was no more.

I sat glued to the television, not wanting to miss even one alphabet of the words being spoken. There were the reactions of people from the Industry trickling...and a little later pouring in.

Shekhar kapur said "We talked of him as if he'll live forever....may be he will!"

Anand Mahindra said, "As long as Dev Anand lived, I though I'd live too..."

Rajnikanth said, "We salute your zest for life and spirited energy for work..."

Hema Malini said:"Seeing him work was like taking a vitamin tablet."

Manoj Kumar recalled how well behaved, honest and thoroughly well-bred Dev Anand had been. Sharing with the viewers the time when his father's death had traumatised him deeply, Manoj Kumar said that Dev Saheb would come to his palce every evening to cheer him up for more than a month.

Waheeda Rahman, while remembering Dev Anand's generosity, said, "The most important film of Dev's life, "Guide" was the story of Raju, The Guide, but he made sure that Rosy (Waheeda Ji's character) was in no way over-shadowed...such was his stature and so secure he was as an actor."

Times Now had done an exclusive interview with Dev Saheb just before his film "Chargesheet" was released. Also they had done a "Total Recall" on him. They kept playing those tapes in between. And I for once completely agreed with Arnab Goswami that it was a complete honour to be in Dev Saheb's presence.

He was right there reliving his life's endearingly precious moments, sharing his incredible energy, his youthful intellect, his infectious vivaciousness with his fans, and very interestingly remarking:
"If you take someone else's idea and do a song or a film, you instantly become second rate. I cannot live like a second rate, therefore all that I do is my own creation. Good or bad, it is original."
He also said:
"After I make a film I don't talk about it....I let the world talk about it!!!"

Talking of "Hum Dono", "Guide", "Hare Rama Hare Krishna", Guru Dutt, Navketan, Sahir, S.D.Burman ... and so much more ... there was always that enthusiasm around him which like a sacred halo made everything shine with his light.
Only for a fleeting moment did his face betray him.
It was when the song "Gataa rahey mera dil..." was played and Arnab asked Dev Anand what the song reminded him.
He started saying everything from how beautiful the song was, how they had waited for Dada Burman to recover from an illness and then compose it, and how RD had composed the mukhda before the older Burman could do the rest of the song.
But the deepest feeling of pain he wanted to escape.
In vain, he tried hard to let go of Vijay Anand's memory. But sometimes even the best of eefort is not enough.
So finally when he did speak about Goldie, the pain could not be contained within. His eyes had a far away look, as if he could see Vijay Anand when he said,
"I remember Vijay Anand, who is no more ... he was a great director, a great maker ... a great companion ..."

But the very next moment he was back with the mask of happiness swaying his head to the eternal "Main zindgi ka saath nibhata chala gaya ...", saying "I salute Sahir! He gave me this incredible philosophy of life ..."Main zindgi ka saath nibhata chala gaya ..."

But I think the song that would suit his life more, and which in my opinion is an extension of Sahir Saheb's philosophy is Shailendra Ji's all-time classic "Din dhal jaaye, raat na jaaey ... "
I feel it is a song that has sadness, longing, pain ... and yet a peaceful acceptance of facts that times gone by are gone for good ... so let go, let things be... and so the sadness does not sadden you ...... great words, awesome music ....

Dev Saheb, in his own words, was forever learning and growing ... So how can he ever cease to live ... ?
A man who never paused ... a man who worked tirelessly, the only actor who lasted more than five decades as a leading man ...
He must be celebrated ... because he was life personified ...

But rest he must ... now that God has so willed it for him ... Rest in peace Dev Sahab ...
Don't worry ... your unmatched melodious legacy lives on ...


Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Rishtey

Kuchh rishto'n ka koi naam nahi hota
Shaaed koi matlab bhi nahi hota

Kyon judtey hain, bikhartey hain
Socho to samajh kuchh nahi ataa

Bass wo hotey hain....
Har pal, har saan's ke saath

Aur unn ke honay se....
Hota hai zindgi  ka wajood 
Be-maani se palo'n ko mil jataa hai matlab jaise
Lamha-ba-lamha aati-jaati saans'on ko mil jaati hai dhadkan jaise...."
(Shazi)

Monday, November 21, 2011

Siblings: Rivals or best friends

Picture childhood. And rushing in come the many pillow fights and trivial tiffs over Mamma-loves-me-more-than-you, I-did-the-dishes-and-dusting-when-the-maid-was-away etc etc among siblings. These are memories for which one will be ready to part with one's entire wealth if they can be brought back.
And the reason could be more than mere nostalgia. Sometimes one also longs for the clock to go back so that the wrongs of the past could alas be set right.

Sibling rivalry is a comparitively less talked-about subject when it comes to discussing relations. However it is an important aspect which effects human behaviour and relations in a very profound manner.

In a film I saw there were these two sisters.
The elder: Beautiful, vivacious, lively, energetic, extrovert, hard-working.
Hobbies: swimming, driving, acting, going on picnics...and of course, making friends.
The younger: Ordinary-looking, unambitious, introvert
Hobbies: reading, films, day-dreaming

Of the two girls, the younger one was tired of being compared with her more endowed sibling. Was it any surprise then, that she grew up to be her own best friend with a terribly shaken self-confidence? Friends and family spared no opportunity to make her aware of her ordinary outward appearance, which according to the accepted societal norms was her shortcoming.

Another case which I read some time back was incidentally about two brothers.
Fairly good looking and innocent. The elder one simple, the younger one looking out for mischief. The elder one helpful, younger one always asking for help.
Both in love with outdoor games. Cricket topping the chart, badminton following closely. Summer afternoons reserved for carrom and cards. Together they had their share of fun and mischief, and often shared a good spanking session from their strict father, if the naughtiness went overboard. But Mamma was protective and would more than make up for the punishment with an extra bowl of ice-cream or some cream biscuits in the tiffin the next morning...

Growing up was like a song.
But not without some notes going out of tune at times. Nothing unusual about that. Happens everywhere. And this could be your story as much as it could be mine.

Going a little further and assuming human nature to work as it normally does, sibling rivalry would certainly be lurking right there in the backyard.
What happens when they are apparently mature adults, married and living their own separate lives.
How would it effect the shaping of future relations between these individuals....and also the bearing it would have on their personalities?

While on this hypothetical exercise, I am reminded of the time when my second child was born, I was advised by the elders in the family to take extra care of the elder one.
"He will not understand why the new-born needs more attention. Instead he may become jealous of the baby." My sister-in-law informed me.
How extremely ironical I thought!
My elder one had been waiting eagerly for his sibling to arrive. I was to come to know later that he had told all his friends in school about the wonderful new friend who would soon be his closest and dearest companion.
He had come straight from the play school to the hospital, and could not for a minute take his eyes off the infant, staring at him in disbelief and exclaiming adorably, "Amma! He's smaller than my teddy bear.....Was I so small too??!!!"

But the inevitable comparisons started raising their head even before the younger one was in school.
The granny would say:"Look at your elder brother...how obedient he is".
A guest would remark:"Wow! your younger one is so gorgeous!"

And once they both started going to school, the teachers contributed their bit too.
I was aghast and angry. But a more experienced friend told me to relax and not pay much heed. Teachers, she said, often inadvertantly (and at times knowingly, in order to bring out the best in students) compare siblings.

Thankfully there seemed to exist a pleasant bond of friendship between the boys.
One day the younger one came home looking sad and went straight to the grandmother's room. There he declared bravely:
"Dadi! Tomorrow I'm not going to leave that boy who hit me today!"
Dadi tried to calm him down. With a smile she asked him why he had not got even with that boy already.
The answer was full of innocent revengefulness. And we all could not help laughing as the younger one confided very seriously: "That boy is elder and stronger than me. Tomorrow my Bhaiyya will come with me and hit him nicely right and left...." and then looking at the elder brother, he asked as if to be reassured: "Bhaiyya you'll come no...?"

Is it some strange coincidence that God makes siblings in striking contrast? So how does one compare two completely different individuals when there is no basis for comparison? Comparing siblings and thus "creating" and "fanning" rivalry between them is, in my opinion the most uncivilised right that our civilisation has so generously bequeathed to each one of us, and justified it too. "Isn't healthy competition a pre-requisite to any development?" They say.
A little envy and ambition is required to fuel that healthy competition, which in turn would ideally ensure the blossoming of a personality.

However one must never forget that most certaily relationships developed in an environment of trust and understanding are by far more dependable than the ones that are fuelled by envious ambition. In times of need selfless associations become reliable shock-absorbers helping one to return to normalcy. It seems almost a necessity for us to seek such understanding in friends after being fed on the age- old adage by some bitterly hurt philosopher who said: "We cannot choose our relatives. But thank God we can choose our friends" or the more contemporary one which said "Best friends do not have the same nature, but they have the best understanding of each other's nature."

Why can't there be such an understanding between siblings who have grown up together and shared so much in their lives? Just a small chat over the telephone with someone who understands you is enough to take the stress off your mind.
And why can't that person be one's siblings? Why can't one's sibling be one's friend too?
It is just a matter of digging deeper into one's conscience and soon enough a voice will say:
"I want to go back to the days when siblings were my only foes" !!!!!

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Balancing Kinship

Although this may be said more vocally about finances and money, the fact that relations are the most unstable of all the possessions that one may ever be attached to can hardly be denied. Most of one's relations are established at birth just as some other vitals like religion, gender, nationality etc are as helplessly determined. In addition to these predetermined specifics in one's life there are more associations that come along through societal responsibilities like marriage and work/profession, and also as simply as friendships forged over a period of time.

Of the relations so developed, the extension of family through marriage becomes as important and permanent as the relations by birth or what are more popularly known as blood relations. And perhaps these are more complicated too as in they often become defining factors in shaping the bonding between blood relatives. They tend to determine the strenghtening and blossoming(or the withering away) of a family and thus determine the happiness (or the conflict) that could make or break an entire clan.

Therefore it is very important to choose these associations intelligently. But in a world full of imperfections,passion and selfishness this is easier said than done. One is so painfully amazed to see crowded family courts full of once-upon-a-time loved ones facing one another with bitterness. And more painful is the fact that they are but a small portion of the vast majority of blood relatives locked in varying degrees of hateful rivalry.

A fair amount of friction cannot be ruled out though, if individuals have to interact and live in harmony. Ironical as it may sound, the fact that no two individuals are same, and difference in opinion is considered a healthy sign of co-existence cannot be ignored. Tact, transperancy and understanding assume great importance in building and cementing long-lasting togetherness specially in multi-dimensional relations.

How can understanding develop? And how much of tact should be brought into use? How much should one "give" in order to be able take something in a "give-and-take" venture? These are questions that do not have a tailor-made answer. Nor is there a ready-reckoner on relations that can provide helpful formulas forever. But some broadly defined rules can be kept in mind.

The following may be guidelines of sorts:

1) Always place yourself in the position of the other in case of a conflict to "understand" the other's point of view.

2) Never try to seek perfection.

3) Do not "give" anything in charity to someone who does not require it. And never "give" in expectation of something in return.

4) Always have work areas well defined.

5) Have good fences and respect other's space and privacy.

And the most important thing to remember is that for a relationship to be enjoyable one must understand and be understood by the other. This is where transparency comes in. In most circumstances misunderstandings start with petty things and soon ego takes over reason. Ego is often confused with self respect.....but while self respect makes a man worthy, ego spells doom...self respect is a source of dignified existance, ego undoutedly causes devastation, not just for the egotist but by extension to associated relationships as well.

Balancing anything is difficult. And balancing kinship is perhaps the most difficult of all balancing acts. But relationships are the most precious treasure of a human being because good relations bring more contentment than all the material wealth in the world. Hence investment in relations must be as selfless an effort as is humanly possible.
And if earnest attempts are made, even in an imperfect selfish world it is not impossible to have workably fulfilling relationships. The most important ingrediant that goes into the making of delicious kinships is a fair quantity of sincereity dressed with the most exhilarating herbs namely tact, love and humaneness.

Sunday, October 9, 2011

My chance meeting with First Love

I was finally there. At her door.

It was more a sort of gateway. An iron grille through which I could see shimmering green plants in earthen pots neatly lined up, reaching the first door in the lobby. I let my eyes drench themselves luxuriously in that refreshing green nectar.

Then I looked for the door bell.
Oh! There were three of them. Each systematically numbered to correspond to the flat it was meant for. I pressed the appropriate one and waited.

I was so thankful to have eluded the unexpected morning drizzle, but my hair as I imagined was in bad shape. Unsettled and unkempt more due to the polluted blows of the congesting traffic than by the pleasant breeze. So without much ado, took out the hair brush that I carry and ran it through my hair superficially.
I was stuffing the brush back in my handbag when a bunch of keys clinked sweetly and I saw a woman opening the lock.

Was this the woman I had been trying to locate for the last one year in the vast multitude of Bombay ?
And now that she was in front of me, I felt a little nervous.

But my feminine instincts were well in place, alert and sturdy, and had already got busy assessing the woman who had by now opened the door 
From the careless length of her dress to the well etched-out wrinkles on her face, from the pale curtains lazily swaying with the mild breeze to the gleaming six-foot clock standing all by itself majestically near the wall, the mind wanted to take in every detail as I walked in behind her

She told me to be comfortable, but herself looked a bundle of nerves. Her manner openly suggestive that I should hurry up with the purpose of my visit.
Strangely I did not feel the compulsion to obey her.
On the contrary attributing that uneasiness to advancing years I allowed her time to relax and compose !!

An inch or two shorter than me, she looked stout in her loose blue A-line dress that reached well below her knees. Hair chopped very short were extremely scanty. In fact I could see her scalp !!!
A well-fitted pair of glasses encased her eyes as if ironically shielding her vision and limiting her horizons.

The furniture in the spacious, well-ventilated living room was simple. While walls were adorned with tasteful contemporary paintings in neat wooden frames the dining table was an antique. Everything in the room seemed to connect the past with the present. The giant Grandfather Clock was in perfect working condition, showing the right time, chiming flawlessly. Just like the inmates of the house, in their twilight years, but fairly healthy and courageously braving age-related hazards.

"That's me" She said, quietly, without exhibiting much emotion, as I placed the computer printout of a black and white photograph before her.
She kept gazing at the picture. There she was ... a young girl with deep large eyes, and thick black hair. Innocence and simplicity adorning her like precious jewels. Draped in a light chiffon sari, she looked graceful and attractive.

I waited for her to say more.
But till now for my ten lines, she had spoken one. My already weak conversational skill was fast depleting. Sitting at the edge of the chair, as I decided that it was time for me to leave, I heard her voice.

"How is he?" She asked.
"He" was the cord, the bond that had brought her and me face to face. "He" had sent me a half century old address and equally antiquated photographs, with a desire to know her whereabouts and welfare.
"He is fine" I replied.
"Married?"
"Yes!" ( Did she by any chance expect him to be unmarried??? )
"He's a grandfather now!" I said volunteering more information than asked for hoping she would share my happiness and excitement, and open up a bit. But nothing changed on her face. Without any expression she popped up another question:
"Is he happy?"
Now I was taken aback.
Honestly I never expected him to be unhappy. As far as I knew he had married the woman of his choice. His children were doing well. He was a contented grandfather.

I stared at her closely. She was patiently waiting for my answer.
I have no specific reason for this, but to me she looked like someone who had been left to wait for eternity.

But she was too dignified to be pitied. My reply was quick.
"Oh! Yes ... Of Course..." I said hurriedly trying to sound convincing.
She looked at me. And this time I could hear her silence. Though very fleetingly. Unable to give any meaning to it.
There definitely was something about her telling me that she knew him more than I could ever claim.

Now she took the other picture. That was of the gentleman and his wife. They were a couple who really seemed to have been matched by God Himself.
She looked at the picture and said,
"She's beautiful!"
I smiled. She paused.
Some minutes went by. Then came another query.
"How many children do they have?"
I gave her all the details I had about them.

Oh! My God ... !!!!!!!
Not another pause, I thought. Her contemplative pauses were making the air around me heavy.

Gathering herself painfully due to a hurting back, she got up and brought out some fine chocolates from the refrigerator.
She offered them to me with politeness, saying:
"You've come to my house for the first time, you must have something sweet."
Was this some kind of a serene celebration?
An expression of happiness at having heard from a dear old friend ...

She said she was happy to know about him and his family and that I should thank him that he still remembered her.
Suddenly I found myself wondering how would I react if at seventy a long lost friend came calling on me similarly.
The thought of it was exhilarating.
But one look at her dampened my spirits.
Could the past freeze so permanently that no amount of warmth from the present ever revive it ?

Trying to bridge the void that among other things, history too had created between her and him, I informed her how at seventy-five plus this friendly and sociable gentleman kept in touch with everyone through internet.
She looked disinterested.
She had no idea how a computer worked.
Her son and daughter were too busy to help her keep in touch with her friends.

Silence returned.

I had done my best to break the ice.
It would have been a pleasure getting two friends back in touch.
But she wanted to live in a world where she was now comfortable. She would not give the bygones the comfort of a revisit.

As I got up to leave she gave me a tight hug. That was about as far as she would go with an emotional outburst.

The next moment she was back to her usual expressionless, smile-less suffocating self ...
and I was glad that the meeting was getting over .......

She walked to the door with me and just before I stepped out she held my hand and said:
"I have a nice husband, but he is very strict. You see, I don't want to spoil my family life. I have been married for more than forty-five years now. My husband was curious to know who this man out of the blue was? Why was he inquiring about me after so many years?"
Her eyes looked at me as if trying to trust me.
Did I see a longing in there ... ?

I was stupefied into silence. But she was speaking with curt clarity.
"Don't give him my address or telephone number ... I don't want to ... you know what I mean ... you can understand no ... ???????"
At one moment she sounded firm and the very next she seemed to be pleading ...

I was stunned.
NO.
I did not understand her then.
I still don't.

Is the institution of marriage so fragile that even at seventy five plus ... with a golden marriage anniversary behind you ... a woman cannot meet / get in touch on phone or email with an old friend who was once upon a time dear to her , for the fear that her marriage of fifty years would break down ...

I don't understand this at all



Saturday, September 24, 2011

The Touch Of The Tiger

My Mamujaan's vibrant legendary love affair with Hockey has been unmitigated for as far back as I can remember.
Mummy had these clear instructions: "Whenever there is a hockey tournament in Bombay, you must make it a point to go and encourage the boys."!!!

Of course it was always not possible, but Mummy did sincerely try and went to witness matches whenever she could.

And we had not the remotest idea that this one, where I had gone along too, was going to become a memorable one.

From the beginning it was different.
First and foremost this was a friendly match between IA(Indian Airlines) and PIA (Pakistan International Airlines).
Although it was a friendly match, the interest aroused among fans was no less. We had no idea till we reached the venue.

With Hockey being forever like the illegitimate halfsister of Cricket, the fans of the game are familiar with an empty stadium.
But this match was being played at the prestigious Bombay Gymkhana. The place was overflowing with spectators by the time we reached. Not an inch of seating space left, Mummy and I stood looking around the place to find a spot from where we could get a clear view of the ground.

Someone suggested we go on the upper floor.
"Up-above-the-world-so-high" also people had crammed in to watch the game. Mummy and I were lucky to find a place from where the view was good. Feasting our eyes on the clear velvety green field we almost forgot the sweaty jostling and climbing of minutes before.

The announcer in the commentators box had already started describing the weather and colours as the players filed out neatly on the ground.

The game got off to an engrossing start and we seemed pretty well-settled in our positions.
Standing hardly mattered to me. Wonder if Mummy had other thoughts, her focus though was evidently on the game.
But I was looking idhar-udhar also :-)
How could one ignore all that sophisticated gorgeousness :-)

And there sitting just a few feet away among some beautiful women and children was the elegant Nawab Of Pataudi.
Mansoor Ali Khan.

Having read and heard about them, his eyes caught my attention. They are still alive in my memory. I had not understood then, but do so well now. That unmistakable friendliness in them was so true and real although one of the eyes was not real!!!
Those large dreamy eyes were calm and peaceful, and as they looked at us, an expression then strange to me, fleetingly crossed his quiet face.

He got up from his comfortable seating space and walked gracefully towards us.

The legendary Nawab whose pictures with his ravishing Begum and the fairy tales that surrounded their life was my only introduction to him, was right beside us and actually speaking to Mummy.

He was telling my mother to go and sit in his place. As she walked equally gracefully to take her place, he took his.
Near me (where Mummy had stood)!!!

His autograph on a piece of blue envelope as were used in the good old days to send what was known as "airmail", is still stuck in one of my olllllddd diaries.

For the last one and a half day I'm searching that diary in my old books ... and hoping my only touch with The Tiger is not lost.

Monday, September 5, 2011

The strength within

The month of Ramzan was in its third week. It was sehri time. Quarter past four I think when the landline phone at the corner table started ringing. It was unusual. Fear made me to hurriedly pick up the receiver. On the other side was my brother. I held my breath.
He was calling from a hospital near our homes.
A very close family friend, almost a family member to us, had been taken there just a little while back. My brother tried to assure me that it would all be fine, and there seems to be no apparent reason to worry. I wanted to believe him. But back to the dining table to eat before the time for sehri ended, my mouth felt parched. I could barely chew the morsel I had put in.

As I entered the hospital lounge just after the Fajir namaz, I saw my brother along with our friend's family. That consisted of his wife and his daughter. It was revealed that he had to undergo an angiography as early as possible.

The two homely females looking evidently exhausted with fatigue, were taking turns in going up and down from the ICU, to the doctor's chamber, to the hospital pharamcy. I wonder how much our presence helped soothe their worried minds and perturbed nerves. But I think those hours were numb and vacant when time stood motionless for them. All that mattered was they had to do the job on hand.

By evening the doctors had performed angioplasty on our friend and declared him "as-of-now-out-of-danger". But the risk remained. Bypass surgery or multiple angioplasty was an absolute must declared the doctors.

And in the days that followed I was amazed at the transformation my friend's 20-something Plain Jane daughter underwent. Her tear-smothered face turned tough like a rock. Eyes red with crying turned red with resolve. She suddenly became a fortress that carefully sheltered her parents and took all the harsh blows on herself.
She had astonished me with her courage and resilience.

A remark that I had heard from one of their relatives not very long ago hit my mind. He had said that this daughter was the cause for worry to the family. She was so ordinary looking and unpolished in manners that at twenty plus she was still unmarried.
"Isn't that a cause for concern?"
I had ignored his idiotic comment then. But now as I saw this same girl move about with confidence and sensitivity I found myself battling with my mind as to why the feminine gender has to time and again stand trials at the altar of societal dogmas.

With a friend for company this tall straightforward girl, her resolute eyes looking for solutions, went about meeting doctors who could educate her on the case and people who had undergone bypasses in the past to understand what her father would be in for.
She then discussed the facilities available at various hospitals, visiting and checking out the facts herself.
The next step was perhaps the most important... and the most difficult one too.
To select an appropriate surgeon.

And all these details she worked out intelligently, diligently and with great composure. At home her mother looked after our friend, and outside the house this girl and her friend co-ordinated the course of action with a huge measure of maturity and fortitude.

I once again am forced to wonder why girls are looked upon only as marriage material. Why do they have to "settle" (read married) in life by a certain age? Are these norms not true for boys? And why settling down has to be with marriage only?
No denying the fact that marriage is important. But then it is important for both...the boys and the girls.
How much more will the girls have to do to prove their worth in their homes and outside?

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Aim at The Stars

They were five of them sharing a flat on the top floor of a four storey building in one of the upmarket areas of Bombay. They called it The Guest House. Perhaps because none of them intended to stay there forever. Friends and family visiting Bombay would be most welcome, not only because then there would be a few more hands to help specially at breakfast time, but also because they all loved to have people from "home".
Young men belonging to respectable families from Uttar Pradesh. Quite an assorted lot, their educational qualifications varying from graduation in Arts to Engineering.

They had just found the fun independence could bring. A job in hand and a roof over their heads in a city like Bombay, they knew their journey in life had begun well. Shared hobbies included drinking infinite cups of tea on a rainy Sunday at the restaurant across the road, chatting with the waiter, getting updated on all the local gossip.
They would also loaf around the beach at Girgaum Chowpatty if there was not much to do in the evening. After dinner the most preferred acitivity was a walk down the Marine Drive Promenade.
Life was good.

All but one of the five apparently had logical (and thus predictable) approach to future. They treasured the security of a stable job, understood the meaning of saving-for-a-rainy-day and were aware of the limits life posed before them.

Agreed they were all dreamers.
The one who was different was a dreamer too. The difference was that to the rest of the world around him, his dream seemed far-fetched.
An unachievable fantasy.
His dream was big indeed. Nobody except The Dreamer himself was sure how, if he ever would, realise it.
He had no fixed job, no fixed working hours. In fact he always seemed to be around. Like a joker in a pack of playing cards he was most often the one who would help out friends in chasing a tight schedule.
He did odd jobs at five-star hotels and film studios. Never discussed the kind of work he did.
He knew no one really bothered.
For all who knew him, he was a little more than being completely worthless.
His friends, the responsible citizens of a developing Nation thought he was but an irresponsible day-deamer wanting to go to Germany.
Why Germany...? They would demand.
The dreamer kept the answer to himself.

Jokes were cracked at his expense. The cruelest would come from the girl-friend of the senior most occupant of The Guest House.
"When are you flying out to Germany?" She would ask sacastically pressing her lipsticked lips and fluttering her eyelashes stylishly, adding a few piercing words mocking his dreams.
Amid the roaring laughter that would emerge no one would notice the glitter in his eyes or the strange smile that he tried to conceal as he moved to a lonely corner doing nothing.

After the release of "Devdas", one evening the legendary Suchitra Sen was shopping at a showroom opposite The Guest House. Fluttering hearts gatherd in a crowd outside the posh shopping Center to catch her glimpse. But our dreamer had the guts to go inside cutting across all barriers, stand beside her, and say : "Paro...?!!"
It is said that she looked back at him, perplexed for a while, then she smiled and said,
"I like your style!!!"

One fine day The Dreamer declared that he was going to attend the Filmfare Awards Nite. Where was his invite the friends asked jokingly. He was quiet and thoughtful. Preparing for the grand evening, he polished shoes, ironed clothes, searched for the right colour in ties that would go with his suit. Paying no heed to the fun being poked at him, he went about diligently through the day working on his looks and appearance.
A little after lunch he disappeared.
His four home-mates wondered what a cock-and-bull story he would try to pull on his return.
But he returned with a broad grin on his face and in his hands an authentic proof of his attendance at the gala.

Some more months passed. Life for the residents at The Guest House was bringing some happy changes. Now settled comfortably in their careers the next logical step forward would be marriage. Plans for a secure future which included owning a few hundred square feet of land-in-the-sky in the city of money and fame, would be discussed on Sundays.
It was a sobering revelation as independence also graduated from being fun to becoming a bundle of responsiblities.
They tried to councel The Dreamer too to come out of an imaginary Dream World and settle down. As a final effort to make him see their point they would tell him how his family back home yearned to see him happy and secure. What was he gaining from aimless flights to nowhere.
"But I do have an aim...and Germany is a real place not very far...!!!" The Dreamer would adamantly insist.
They would shrug in a frustrated huff wondering how an almost hand-to-mouth income with no wonderous eduactional backup or professional skills could take him to the land of his dreams, while The Dreamer wondered why his dream seemed so unattainable.
What was so extraordinary about settling down in Germany?
And what was so unusual about he wanting to achieve his dream on his own strength.

Then one day he disappeared.
Days, weeks and months passed.
A couple of years passed.
The "family" at The Guest House moved on too.
With the passage of time they spread and scattered over the city, getting busy with the daily grind, but sharing joys and concerns and remaining in touch.
They did miss that one wonderful friend and companion.

One morning phones in four homes started ringing as if in a chain reaction.
The Dreamer had surfaced.
Like the sun on the horizon.
He was actually in Germany!!!
His business had now started giving him some profits.
And so the next logical step was on his mind...
Logical...??????
Did he say "Marriage"...???
Yes...Yes...Of course!!!
Finally.
Dream was to marry Logic. What an absolutely fanciful union this must be.
Everyone was delighted. Genuinely happy for The Dreamer.
He had earned respect and admiration for his earnestness.
He was no more the Joker in a card game.

Please Note: There is a moral in this story!
Dare to dream. Work diligently towards reaching the goal. No dream is small or ridiculous. What makes the difference is the manner in which one realises that dream.

Hence never laugh at anyone's dreams.
Never ridicule a Dreamer.
You never know while the slurpy tongues are making fun of him, his intense conviction in himself is driving him to the fulfillment of his aspiration, allowing him that envious last laugh.

Friday, June 24, 2011

She shared only Happiness


She shared happiness ... only happiness ... pure, unadulterated Happiness ... yes ... for she was Life in all its glory ... 💐💐💐

I am sure every morning the Sun entered her home as if from all directions making it the brightest spot on this Planet.

Her house was open, airy and cheerful.
And she was forever eager to absorb the tiniest of the delightful rays of Hope, and reflect it back in her smile

There never was a spec of dust anywhere. 
Never had there been a time when her things were misplaced.
No messy wardrobes. 
Never ever a chaotic moment in the kitchen.
Shining cutlery, gleaming crockery, crisp curtains, embroidered cushion covers, lavish green plants, magnificent vases ...

There was a place for everything, and everything had to to be essentially in that very place. 
That was the only way things could exist in her home.

She was "Aapa Jaan".
Although I have shared a pic of hers at the end of this article , I don't want to make her name public .
So here in this homage to her , I ll call her Apaa Jaan

With her there was that "native-place-walaa-connection". Aapa Jaan's and my parents' families belonged to Shahjahanpur in UP , and so I had often heard my parents mentioning her family in their conversations

The first time I saw her was in my sister's wedding album 
It is the pic that I ve shared at the end of this article 
In the picture my father is having a hearty laugh , so characteristic of him 😊 , while Apaa Jaan and her daughter are smiling charmingly 😊🥰💞💞💞
This was outside our Tata colony bungalow 


I was to come to know later that she never let an opportunity to smile go by without making the most of it.

Much later meeting her personally was an experience I will always remember.
Vivacious.
Pleasantly chatterbox-ish.
And domineering 😊

I was still thinking of adjectives to describe her in our first meeting when I noticed her hands. 

They lay almost still in her lap as she seemed to be sitting comfortably in her doubly cushioned chair, slightly higher than the rest of us, wearing a colourful printed cotton gown.

Honestly her manicured fingers, would have looked long and beautiful had they not been a little crooked. 
She apparently seemed oblivious of my gaze travelling further down to her feet. They were also not normal, resting rather awkwardly in the padded footwear from Fabindia.

But the smile that lit up her beautiful dusky face seemed natural and effortless. Her large blackish-brown eyes, her proud straight nose, her long black hair ...
Every little thing was under her supreme control although she was suffering from arthritis.

The little movements that she could make on her own were full of agony and stress.
But the disease was only one part of the long struggle that life had been for her. 

And yet here she was enthusiastically talking of the latest improvisation in her aam-ka-achaar and the Aloe Vera juice and gel that had worked wonders on her daughter's Mother-in-law's skin and helped add "so much" glow to her face 😊 !!!

I was completely awestruck. The more I met her the more I respected her. She was an inspiration, a bundle of positive energy, a light that filled you with happiness.

On one of my visits Aapa Jaan gifted me a small Aloe Vera plant, that has remained
with me and flourished abundantly, just like my attachment with her over the years.

An expert cook , Aapa Jaan always had the best of kababs and koftas ready to be served at the shortest notice. 
The aroma of food at her dining table was for me the best in the whole of Bombay because it used to be exactly the same as that which used to fill my grand-parents' sprawling courtyard in Shahjahanpur when the "khaansama" would be busy supervising his assistants working on clay choolahs with wood fire.

A fine and talented dressmaker, Aapa Jaan used to successfully run a designing and tailoring business to which she had given not just her sweat but her character too.

Every time I visited her I noticed a little deterioration in her health. But never in her spirit and vigour. 

One day I complimented her on her sewing skills ... She was indeed proficient , neat and quick with her stitches ... and a resourceful designer too ...
With a sparkle in her eyes and without a moment's hesitation she said :
"You should see my daughter's expertise ... she's way ahead of me ... I feel so proud of her ... 😊"

Last year when I greeted Aapa Jaan on Women's Day, she told me she was in the hospital. 
She had gone in for a knee replacement operation. It went off fine, the recovery was satisfactory , and it would be only a matter of some more time before she would resume her routine 
But in the meantime she had an unfortunate fall.
So she was in the hospital once again because the accident had fractured her femur this time

Aapa Jaan took all these downturns with a characteristic fortitude that was so inseparable from her
But could her immense will power reverse the weakening that her inside was experiencing ?

It did not take long for the effects to show on her body externally too.

A few months ago my sister and I visited her. She was lying in bed. A sheet covering her frail body. The conversation this time was mostly about her health. 

I saw for the first time her suffering taking its toll. In a moment of acute emotional anxiety she lifted the sheet. 
And what we saw is etched in my memory. There was nothing beneath the sheet except a mass of bones covered with pale lackluster skin.

It was frighteningly depressing.

That was the first time I had seen her lying down. 
And after that every time I saw her, she was lying down 
Her bed clean and neatly made. 
The house all tidy. 
Her television serials running their length. 
And her husband running about doing odd jobs for her. 
He had also mastered the art of facing hard times with a smile.

Aapa Jaan had once upon a time , gone to school with the late Madhubala's younger sister. Often we got to hear of the happy times they had spent. 
Apaa Jaan had told us that Madhur Ji herself used to visit her whenever time permitted and they would spend a cheerful time together  

And this last time that I went to her place on hearing of her death , the house was spotlessly clean , everything seemed to be in its place. 
Only the tearing silence was a misfit in the house which used to buzz with the pleasant chatter of its Lady.
She had been buried in the nearby grave yard the night before. 

A tired looking family soaked in grief met me.
We talked about her in between pauses loaded with emotion.

I remembered the pride and affection with which Aapa Jaan would describe the sewing skills of her daughter and I told her this
She looked at me with pained eyes 
And then I was speechless. 
Stunned at the irony , it's agony unbearable, as the daughter said in a quivering voice, swallowing the lump in her throat

"Kal un ka kafan main ne hi siya tha ..."



Thursday, June 9, 2011

Remembering "The Millionaire Fakir" Husain

Oh! That was M F Husain in his car, as it drove past me on a 1st January some years back in Bombay's Fountain area.
I went almost running behind the car much to the amusement of my children 😃!
Just as he had alighted, I was beside him, children in tow.
He looked at us, and smiled 😊

I was speechless with excitement and I am sure he understood because he stood there calmly and waited as I searched my bag for something suitable to get his signature.

What a classic view it was.
Hutatma Chowk soaked in the quiet morning sun after what must have been a night of dazzling celebrations all around
Imagine an aerial view of this meeting.
No less than a page out of vintage literature.

I remember very well Husain Saheb was wearing an off-white kurta pajama, and a maroon muffler loosely hung around his neck, but don't quite remember his footwear, the absence of which was such a big news those days.

He spoke to the children in a very soft voice ... And then he signed his mega-million dollar name on a one rupee envelope (I did not have any other plain paper in my bag at that time!), and bidding goodbye smiled again ...
This was like a Dream ... A Dream that I had never seen ... 😘😘😘

It is hard to accept that such a composed, simple and serene person can insult religious sentiment. As far as I can understand, he never took his Muslim identity too seriously.
The backlash against Husain can be compared to the anger Muslims expressed when a Danish cartoonist "insulted" the Prophet Mohammed (Peace Be Upon Him).
Neither of the two groups can lay claim to religions they so fiercely defend and represent, because it is not religion, but dubious vested interests that encourage vandalism and violence.

So Husain driven away from his own Motherland, lived in Qatar and passed away in London, but his work continues to live in the heart of India, and not surprisingly so, because Husain had India in his heart.
He took the liberty that was apparently not supposed to be his, not only because of his Muslim name, but also because religious sentiment is, since times immemorial, a wild fire that has never been doused ...

Some relief though to hear sane voices even in times that don't necessarily support logic and reason

http://www.thehindu.com/news/national/A-national-shame-if-we-cannot-say-he-belongs-to-us-Sharmila/article16817016.ece

But all said and done India has lost a legend, which is very sad.

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Hey! Man I want to go.... :))

Two calls.
And I was swept away through the tidal waves of Time into an era that belonged to the foregone Century. There was this unstoppable-never-before urge to relive Childhood. Every moment precious, as it were, and so without the slightest alteration to it.
It was not the first time that I was experiencing an emotional upsurge threatening to do a cloud-burst in my eyes! And yet this was different.

The first call was from a cousin who I knew existed somewhere in Goa. In the long span of time that had separated us I had got a couple of fleeting updates. I knew just a few things about her like she had lost her husband years ago and that her sons were either studying or working abroad. But I had no idea she had a daughter too, who was married and now moved back to Goa with her husband to be close to Mommy. Although I had never seen her children, my mind started weaving their pictures.
Among the images that my heart and mind have stored together there is a vividly clear portrait of this cousin. Without much thought I gave her face to her daughter.

The last time I had seen her, my cousin must have been almost as old as her daughter is now. Her lovely radiant smile showing a perfect set of pearly teeth, the magnificent kundan jewellery adding glow to her already beaming countenance, her phirozi gharara, kurta and dupatta embellished with sequins, lachkas and gotas, the merrily jingling phirozi glass bangles worn with exquisite kundan kangans. And not to forget those lovely rings on her long fair fingers !!!
That was at some family celebration in our native town in Uttar Pradesh years and years and years back.

Now as her voice touched my ears, I tried to imagine her in person. It was a voice that I had  forgotten over the years , and , yet strangely enough it was a voice I felt pleasantly comfortable with. Although all my efforts to put a face or a personality to that voice now proved  fruitless , I knew the voice and the person deep inside my heart ....it was a voice that seemed very much my own.

After the call ended I felt as if  a small part of my past that had drifted away had found its way back to me.
And that should have made me happy. But queerly the feeling deep within me was that of an undefinable emptiness and longing.

The other call was from a dear old friend. She is someone who has been there for me whenever I needed a true friend. We had met in school...Class three to be precise, when my father was transferred from a place in Raigad district to a place in Thane district in Maharashtra. Her father worked for the Birlas. Mine for the Tatas. And in their professional capacities they often met each other, while we girls met in the class every day. Little wonder then that our mothers have been friends too ever since.
We have seen a lot of this world together.

This friend had now called me to share a sad news. Her father had passed away a day before.
Slowly in a controlled voice she gave me the details while I mumbled the customary words of condolence.
Oh! Come on...what was I doing?
She is so close to me, I can feel her pain as my own and yet it seemed I was being perfunctory in expressing my grief.
Deep inside I could feel my tears. I wanted to cry and cry and cry...
But the fact is no words could express my pain.

In everyone's life there are certain things and people whose presence one takes for granted. Life without them is unimaginable. When my father passed away three years back, I could not come to terms with the fact for quite sometime. But being too numb with shock, in a state of trance I sailed through the tragedy with apparent ease. Friends and relatives were surprised to see how "brave" I had been in my "composure", displaying a rare calm that seemingly comes when one entrusts oneself entirely to God.
But I know I am not such a sagaciously detached soul.

While on this call I was reminded of my own loss. slowly I began to realise that with my father a part of my childhood had also died. There was no numbness now as I clearly remembered my late father. They say time heals all wounds. Then how could I still feel the pain as if of a wound that was still raw.
Of loss that was irreparable?

I had never cared for the proverbial bachpan-ke-din to come back.
Never lived in the past.
Never tried to hold back and cling on to memories.

But now suddenly it dawned upon me that my childhood is far too beautiful and invaluable for me to let it just go away. I want to cling on to all those memories, and hold back Time in my tightly clenched fists.

I want to go back...really earnestly...to my bachpan-ke-din... to the time
"when getting high meant swinging,
when drinking ended up with CocaCola bottles,
when Dad was the only hero,
when love was Mom's hug,
when Dad's shoulder was the highest place on this planet,
when one's siblings were one's 'worst enemies'
when my dolls were hand-made by my granny (exclusively for me)
when in hot summer afternoons we sneaked out to collect wild berries and jungle-jalebis in our embroidered cotton frocks and sat on the verandah steps to "divide the booty without cheating !!!"
when behind Mummy's back my sister and I would explore her wardrobe for silk saris and shaneel blouses
when marriage meant gudiya-gudde-ki-shaadi
when one could sleep without a worry in the world,
when all the phones were landline
when the only thing that hurt were skinned knees
when the only things broken were toys
And
when goodbyes were only till tomorrow............."

Monday, May 9, 2011

Mothers Day Musings

I just cannot get her out of my mind. That sweet little girl.
How old must she be...?
Two ... three ... not more in any case.
Very fair, shoulder-length curly golden hair, but rather unkempt and disorganized. She was dressed in a pink top and jeans.

It was a usual evening at Joggers Park. The place was full of people taking their routine rounds of evening walk, children playing about going up and down the slides, and some smaller ones watching ducks swimming gracefully in the little pond. The sea shimmered as the setting sun, all of glorious orange, cast its glow in that unending mass of water, while the crows kept flying to and from it with their catch of "seafood"!!!

She was the only lonely child out there I think. And precisely therefore I could not take my eyes off her. She was accompanied by a neat shalwar-kameez clad woman in her twenties, whose well-oiled hair was tied in a thick black plait, eyes kajal-ed, she was toying with a mobile phone. Plenty of green bangles jingling away as she gestured with her hands while talking to a young man standing near her.
She was undoubtedly the ayah.
Whoever was the young man should have been none of my concerns.

But it seems my traditional narrow-mindedness had taken over too soon as the thought of these two having an affair crossed my mind!
Even if they were not having one, the manner in which they were neglecting the child irritated me.

I saw the little one tugging at her ayah's dupatta with whatever force her small hands could muster and gesturing lovingly to sit next to her. But the ayah was so thoughtlessly unmindful. She did not as much as even look at the lovely little girl.

Although quite inavertently, I was now looking hard at them. The ayah I'm sure had a strong sixth sense. Suddenly she looked at me in the eyes. I took her stare blandly.
For a moment she seemed to flinch.
Then she hurriedly shifted her gaze to the little girl.
And as an after-thought, pressed a few buttons on the cell phone (I'm still not sure if she was faking!!!)
Giving the handset to the child, she said " Mummy se baat karo, Baby!"
It was more than apparent that there was no response from the other side.

In another diametrically opposite incident, I saw a young female labourer managing to snatch a few minutes from her hard working schedule, to feed her infant and put him to sleep. It may be quite another thing that she had to put the semi-naked child to sleep on a soiled piece of cloth on the pavement near a pile of stinking slush and dirt that had been freshly dug out from the gutter running alongside as "operation-clean-gutters" reached its peak. The child slept blissfully under a shady tree while the mother went back to work under the open sky, blistering harsh sun mercilessly beating down. Drops of sweat running in a stream down her pale skinny body, but a strange expression of contentment beautifying her simple unadorned face.

Certainly that miserable labourer had never heard of a day called The Mother's Day.
But surely the Super-Mom of that little Princess I saw at Joggers Park knows all about Mother's Day.

I had been forever convinced that as a woman, a woman can be good or bad, but as a Mother, a woman is forever goodness personified.
But a very famous film maker with whom I had interacted online had told me quite adamantly that mothers could also be bad.

His words came back to me and without being judgemental, this Mother's Day I am inclined to believe that perhaps Mothers could be classified too.

The Poor Mothers who had just one day in the whole year to call her own.
And the Rich Mothers who are a Mother all 365 days of the year...

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Food for thought

A five month old infant had been brought to a district hospital somewhere in Central India. Her rectum and vagina had become one as a result of a savagery called rape.
Was stunned and speechless as I heard this. An act of unbelievable insanity and unpardonable brutality.

For a while I was numb. But eventually when I got back to my senses, I was reminded of reports on rape and reactions thereon in newspapers and on television channels. A good number of people often opine that women actually "invite" trouble by dressing up provocatively, going to pubs, restaurants etc and by spending nights out of the protection of their homes..
In Bollywood films also one comes across references to "khuli tijori" meaning a woman wearing revealing clothes. And the irony is that such a term is used to suggest humour in the film.
I think it is very insulting for the entire womanhood and there is hardly any humour in such filthy similies. If anything such disgraceful references make the offenders bolder and their scatological views on women stronger and more legitimate (for them).
But then Bollywood has never really set examples in good behaviour. Nor do they seriously take up any social responsibility while "minting" currency of every kind.

While on Bollywood, one cannot forget the infamous Shiney Ahuja case.
He is reported to have said in his defence that the smell of washing powder on the body of a maid is enough for any man to be put off. So how could he even think of going near the woman.
One would like to believe that Mr.Ahuja has an extraordinary nose or else how could he smell the body of his maid without going near her?
However Shiney has been given seven years in jail by a court in Mumbai. Let us see if he really spends those many years in a prison.

Also there are those scores of so called reality and comedy shows on 24x7 entertainment television channels. Filled with cheapness and vulgarity of the lowest possible order, these shows are ironically supposed to be providing "wholesome family pleasure", specially on weekends.

I also recall here with grave sourness the middle aged woman who was among the passengers standing in a jam packed BEST bus one evening. She was dressed in an ordinary loose shalwar-kameez, a dupatta covered her head. Behind her were some young boys. Most of the passengers in the bus had not even noticed her until she turned her head and told the boys to "behave". It seems they were pushing her unnecessarily and in the process touching her obscenely. The boys started shouting in response saying did they not have better things to do than "waste" their time on a granny.
When the conductor intervened and asked the boys to apologise to the elderly woman whom they had indeed demeaned, they threatend him too. Other passengers in the bus including me were silent (or at the most murmuring) onlookers, angry at the arrogance and lewdness of the boys. But that was the most we did for the dignity of an elderly lower middle class woman.

Neither the five month old infant who I mentioned in the beginning nor this elderly woman who I describe now had done anything to provoke their tormentors. Neither in dress nor in behaviour.
Why then did they have to put up with so much atrociousness and injury to their dignity, their body, their soul...?

While I completely agree that women must be modest in carrying themselves, I vehemently refute the theory that their revealing outfits and their beauty can turn a sober man into a cruel rapist.

A rapist is most certainly a mentally disturbed person who also has criminal instincts, but this disorder remains hidden, until they strike and commit the heinous act.
Can such a crime be stopped/avoided? If not how should the poor victim be compensated and how should the wicked criminal be punished?
Let us not forget that many times the offender is not an outsider.

Will death penalty for rape keep a check on potential rapists?
It is a debatable issue. But most importantly the legal procedure to establish rape must undergo some humane changes as well. As per the present norms a victim must face a host of torturing querries publicly that further assault her self-respect and leave her femininity grievously injured.
The victim is stigmatised while the criminal roams about not just freely, but most often without even a scratch to his reputation and honour.

Isn't this some food for thought?
Can rape be ever justified?? Do eve teasers have the lisence to disgrace anyone whenever they please???

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Chhod aaye hum wo galiyan

They looked at me in disbelief.
The boys and me were at the breakfast table. I had waited in anxious anticipation all night, was sure they would congratulate me enthusiastically at having won over the only addiction to which I had ever succumbed. But I had not expected this shocked silence in response.
Here I was... feeling like a victorious soldier just come home after a long and difficult war. And there across the table were two faces looking at me dejectedly.
This was surely not the kind of welcome that awaited my likes.

I took a sip of tea from my cup and waited a little more. The boys were now looking at each other.
"Oh! Come on...I've only deactivated my Facebook account last night...nothing so shocking ..." I said as they still stared hard at me. Were they trying to convince themselves?
Enjoying the dumb-founded look on their sweet faces I went on:
"Is there something so very astonishing about it...something that I'm missing...???" I asked.
"Amma! Have you really done it?!!! Why on earth did you take this extreme step??? How are you going to live without your Facebook family?"
This was my elder one's string of queries.

The younger one, the quieter of the two, was I think still absorbing the facts of the situation because he sat silently, thoughtful eyes apparently watching the omelette in his plate, but mind certainly away elsewhere.

Honestly I was wondering if my children did not know how much time I was spending on this addiction called Facebook. I was into so many groups, quite a few tags, inbox messages, many of which I still had not read. A whole lot of my FB friends were people who I had never met, and would never meet, yet we were sharing so much. Songs, writeups, photos, jokes...
And as if this was not enough, we were actually sharing lives...joys and concerns, views and opinions...
It was like one big friendly neighbourhood. Eventually some of us had become as dear and as near as one's family. I knew exactly when there were guests at A's place or when B was going on a family holiday...a marriage at C's place or an anniversary celebration in D's clan, E attending a conference abroad, F mourning the loss of a girlfriend, or XYZ conducting a public interest rally/meeting.

Interestingly at times when a nice film or television programme was on the air, the entire group would be watching and commenting on it on Facebook!!!
That was the kind of closeness that had developed.

When I think of it now I find it impossible to believe that I actually did shed my inherent aloofness and privacy and did open up to so many strangers at a place where more and more strangers were getting an insight into those aspects of my life where only the closest had ventured thus far.

I had no idea who all could be watching my activities on this networking site till a friend pointed out to my near-24x7 presence on Facebook.
I felt as if I had been caught having an illicit affair!!!
My well wishers had now started admonishing me and my mother was worried for my health. My doctor was telling me to take the morning walks a bit seriously. But I was interested only in Facebooking, so much so that at times my back and fingers ached and I felt nauseated!!!
Slept late at night, got up late in the morning. All wrong life style and yet the guilt was ephemeral.

Going back in time I remember vividly the unexpected invitation from a dear nephew to join Facebook.
Till then I had only vaguely heard of it (and other networking sites) where apparently people from across the globe could interact, become friends and share so much that was, for an uninitiated person like me impossible to imagine.
Also I had thought that these sites were for young boys and girls to have fun and also benefit through exchange of information on topics that are of mutual interest professionally and academically.
What could a middle-aged home maker be doing on Facebook? The thought that I would be the oddest creature out there made me go pale in the face of Facebook :))

In the days to come I would go on to prove myself thoroughly wrong though. Discovering the magic of having the world at my finger tips was intoxicating. I found many long-lost friends as if ready and waiting to meet me. Also met up with half of my extended family on Facebook. The plight and pain of the North Indian Muslim of my generation, often the existence of half of whose family has become virtual due to the Partition of India, had lessened considerably as Facebook brought those hitherto-unseen-faces on a common platform. For me, my relatives across the border and abroad now existed a little more in reality...I could see (and at times even feel them)through pictures on their profile and interact with them through comments and messages on Facebook.

Facebook had thus become a lifeline for me. And anyone who heard of my dissociation with it could not help feeling amazed. I must admit here that I still have not stopped loving Facebook. It has blessed me with some of the most wonderful people I could have ever known. It has enriched my life and made me a much better person in more ways than one. It has been that legendary "friend, philosopher and guide" to me when I needed one the most.
So it is my fault entirely if I let go of all controls. It is my weakness that when I did realise of my fault I only half-heartedly tried to redeem myself.
But what is an addiction after all?
An obsession of sorts that devours all else. My innocent love affair was becoming a sinful obsession.
It was, without any doubt, becoming really illicit!!!
And in my own interest I had to stop here and now.

Well then, should I not be proud of myself for what I have achieved?
Indeed I have accomplished the impossible!!!
But ridiculous as it may sound I hate myself for having won over my addiction.
I have moved on.
There is going to be no looking back. But it will be surely some more time before I forgive myself for having "chhod aaye wo galiyan..."

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

From the archives...

This was written in 2008 and now almost three years down the line I see so much more deterioration that leaves me astonished and speechless
-----------------------------------------------------------


Cricket is such a lively subject. Never short of controversies, never short of glamour and above all never short of what everyone aspires for. Big money. And the game India is nuts about has always been improvising. It is so wonderful to see life flowing through the sport for as far back as I can remember and I am convinced after all the latest developments on and off the field that there is never going to be a dull moment in the game for many more years.

Take Harbhajan-Sreesanth controversy. I am inclined to believe that Cricket and politics can now be safely compared and equated on a similar level, where might is right seems to rule the day. Harbhajan was in the news earlier too for a fight with an Australian player, but at that time we as a nation rose to support and defend him as if there was no other way to register one's love and loyalty for India. Now when Harbhajan has allegedly slapped an Indian who is his team-mate on one occasion and on another they stand on the opposite sides of the fence, separated by a well-calculated business transaction, India stands divided on the issue. However it is good to see the majority having spoken in favour of admitting that Harbhajan has indeed gone too far this time. The conclusion as per my simple logic therefore
is that we do have different sets of morals, and discrimination, specially if "national pride" is made the centre of a controversy.

Take another instance. Vijay Mallaya's gift to IPL. The cheerleaders. Supposedly beautiful semi-clad females swaying their made-to-order bodies whenever a four or six is hit seems more of a cartoon than anything worth watching by mature adults. Even if one does not cry for saving the Indian culture, it is quite evident that such an absurd, unnecessary "borrowed" idea of entertainment is degrading for the Indian masses in general. Do the likes of Vijay Mallayas feel that every little piece of entertainment must essentially involve dumb item-girl-like characters to be really appealing. Such male chauvinists must bear in their small minds that women have proved that they are much more than just sex objects. However Vijay Mallya has a reputation of treating women like sales-promotion-gadgets. Its a wonder that in this era of women's emancipation the liquor baron is exalted for his vulgarity.

In our earlier days we were told that money cannot buy happiness. Now we are advised "Whoever said money can't buy happiness didn't know where to shop"! And our Cricketing fraternity has proved time and again that they have their shopping details well etched out. They know exactly where to shop and do not mind becoming commodities themselves!!

The question that comes to my mind after taking stock of the situation is whether this much commercialisation is right or are we going out of bounds and whether a retrospection is long overdue? From a gentleman's game Cricket has to the gully and mohallah, which is very good indeed. Infact as one sees the common man getting opportunities that were in the earlier days reserved for the so-called blue-blooded elite the Indian democracy does seem to be vibrant fro once.
Is that the reason then for the deteriorating morals? The common man is so determined to jump ranks in the social heirarcy that he does not mind a couple of skeletons in his closet in the process?
Cricket is just one field of human activity, but when an entire social setup begins to turn topsy-turvy its better to pause for while and look back for reasons and solutions.

Monday, March 7, 2011

GAK

Honeymooning was over. Time had come to accept marriage for what it really was. I realised this when one fine morning my mother-in-law handed the proverbial "chaabi-ka-guchcha" over to me in the presence of her husband and my husband. She said quite Nirupa-Roy-like:
"Its all yours now. The house. The Khandaan-ki-izzat. And of course the kitchen!!!"

I thought she had been rehearsing her lines and planning this "ceremony" for quite sometime. She had chosen an auspicious day, ensured that the two men of the house be present...and had prepared the Bollywoodish kheer too herself.
The Chaabi-ka-guchcha was quite an ornament in fact. Made from silver it had intricate minaakari made out very beautifully all over it. It hung proudly on my ma-in-law's waist tucked into her sari. This little piece of female adornment was actually a symbol of authority and signified the high position of the woman who possessed it.

I remember my hesitation. It was not perfunctory. I felt it was still her right being my husband's mother and having run the house efficiently for so long. I would learn from her gradually, make myself worthy of taking charge and only then would I think of steping into her shoes. But her mind was made up. She wanted her freedom. She needed to relax. Oh! Yes, she would be there to guide me, but from now on I would be "in-charge".
The Chaabi-ka-guchcha perhaps marks the biggest turning point in a woman's married life.
I now had the authority. I had the keys.
But I also had immense responsibilities and duties.

The first few months went off rather smoothly. Then...
I didn't know how it happened, but every time I was broke by the third week of the month. Whatever I tried, seemed to be of no help in improving the situation. Husband Ji was perturbed. His mother had never asked him for more money in the middle of the month. In fact she even seemed to often save a bit...!!!

I had studied Economics and a little commerce too. But surely Ghalib, the renowned Urdu poet had also been a student of Economics. How else could he write "hazaron khwahishein" and then also confess, "bahot niklay mere armaan lekin phir bhi kam niklay"

My husband suggested that I should make a note of all that I spend.
Fantastic!
I thought I would now have some peace of mind. But that was not to be. In fact I was more confused as my balance sheet never seemed to balance. For a long while I sat trying sincerely until my head ached and I felt giddy.
Milkman, Dhobi, Bai, Mali, cook, Newspaper, Electricity bill, telephone bill, petrol pump bill, vegetables, grocery, friend's daughter's birthday gift...I had calculated all...but still something was missing...
And then...God gave me wisdom...!!!
Husband satisfied. Me at ease. All fine.

One morning some months later he asked:
"What is GAK? You seem to be spending every month on it, yet I don't seem to see or understand what it is..."
I told him.

That of course did not change my pattern of living or the expenditure incurred every month.
And YESSSS... my husband gave me a raise too...but not before giving up every little hope of seeing me ever balance the Profit & Loss Account and pronouncing me as a potential threat to budding economists!
For "GAK" in my books of account stood for "God Alone Knows"...!!!!!!!!!
Ever since I have stopped writing any accounts.
God gives me...and I spend... :))

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Solution for our "Idiotic" Education System

"3 Idiots" was a super duper hit. It apparently talks of how the education system is killing the creativity and burdening students. 

Does the film really serve the students with solutions or is it just another film , this is a matter of debate. 

But talking of education system and the reforms it must undergo , does anyone think about the strongest pillar on which rests the entire system , and which also is the most neglected one ?

I am talking about teachers. 

How often have we heard that teachers are poorly paid in most schools and colleges. And quite often , government , who seems to be keen on bringing about the reforms , does not pay salaries to its teachers for months together. 

In such a scenario is it any wonder that most of the teachers , specially in schools are into the profession not because of they are dedicated to the profession and love spreading and sharing knowledge , but simply because they could not get a better job and most of them actually do not like what they are doing 
They are into it because they have a family to feed and responsibilities they cannot afford to overlook. 

In times when one hears so much about pursuing a career of one's liking , how many are lucky enough to be doing so? Insecurities in life outdo every creativity that a person might posses. 
We do not have the courage to say "NO" when it really matters. 
An education system should teach this virtue also! 
Also an education system anywhere in the world that does not teach basic human values fails its very purpose. 
My mother tells us how difficult it was in her time for women from respectable Muslim families in our native place to go to a school , more so to the convents 
But my grandfather , convinced his mother , saying education polishes the soul. 

However can an education system that creates clones of job-seekers also contribute to bringing about an improvement in the values, morals and principles that should govern life and be at the base of everything that one does in life. 

By the way how many of us want our children to take up teaching as a profession ? 

I would also like to make another point here since the film mentions the flaws in the country's education system , let us not conclude it provides real solutions too. 
First of all it talks of only the above-90%-lot , those who have already qualified to be in a prestigious Engineering College. 
It is another matter that some of them did not like engineering. 

Let us realize the fact that between the completely dejected and the enviable toppers lies the majority : 
The average student. 
They are in majority. And it is basically their problems that should be discussed. That would in all probability provide solace to those who are at the lowest rung of the ladder too. 

The essence of it all for us is to realize that our children are not machines. Neither are they indebted to their elders so much that they are striving forever to fulfill the desires and dreams of their parents. 

Our children are human beings , with their own personalities and preferences. Guiding them to be good human beings and invoking in them the spirit of healthy competition should be our role as parents. 

 Too idealistic to be true ? 
Well ...
 I believe in aiming high !





Lord Of Small Streets

The controversy over "My Name Is Khan" had not completely faded away. Newspapers have reported that Shiv Sena's threatening words did not deter the Mumbaikars from watching their (most?!) favourite Khan, while the Shiv Sena claims that Khan had apologised, to which Khan says he really had not. Hence long drawn heated egoistic arrows are flying in the air.

And on the heels of this, here comes another eyesore, with an arrow in the heart, for the various Senas who have assigned to themselves the job of saving a generation from cultural and moral downturns: The Valentine's Day is knocking on the door like a long-awaited opportunity for all those who needed just a moment's liberty to give words to their feelings.

I had heard some time back that all concerned have been warned against the consequences of Valentine Day celebration. Quite similar to last year and year before that and even before that...I mean this has been happening for the past many years. The "moral police" beats up young boys and girls, damages shops selling freaky tit-bits that these young "lovers" exchange as Valentine Day gifts and then every one goes home!

Neither the youth nor the goondas in the garb of "preachers-of-moral-values" have tried to bridge the gap between themselves.

What is wrong with celebrating life and the small opprtunities that it provides to be happy in the midst of the rat race one has to run to meet the legendary both ends, that actually never seem to meet? I think we need a little introspection here. There is nothing wrong with the celebration. What is wrong is going over-board. And if the various conscience-keepers of our system feel that something wrong is going on, they are in their right to ask for reforms.

But how does one reform an erring person? Taking from the Valentine's Day, I think it should be an effort made with love and thoughtfulness. Since we are so obsessed with Bollywood, it will be a good idea to remember Munnabhai 2, where the hero sends roses to his opponent for every wrong that he does with a "get well soon" message!

Having said this, I would like to ask a couple of questions that seem very paradoxical as I try to sort them out :

Is it right to damage private and public property to "protect" moral values?
Is it correct to damage cultural heritage under the pretext of saving National pride?
Is it really morally supreme to kill or harass young lovers who wish to marry each other, just because they happen to belong to different religions, castes, regions etc?
Is it human to wipe out human beings just because their land happens to be rich with minerals?
Is it anywhere near protecting values and principals when government after government facilitates the entry of murderous pharma gaints and seed companies that turn innocent human population into gunniea pigs and hugely indebt our own poor farmers so much so that they end up commiting suicides?

And these are not all of the atrocities that are happening beyond the control of the common man, who incidentally is in a majority and who actually ends up paying with money, material and sometimes even life so that the few not-so-common families can rule the planet and live in luxury.

In a discussion I was having with some people, one said : "How can a country survive without netas? I think they have their problems too, and what could be the solutions to their problems?"
His friend remarked :" Oh!Yes,it is really good to try and understand where the shoe could bite the wearer, and of course we need leaders and politicians, but in a democracy we expect them to be the leaders who safeguard the interests of the common people."
I leave it to the reader to decide and take this discussion forward.

As for me I think I should send the Thakerays some roses this Valentine's Day to remind them of the "dhaai akshar prem ke..."
And this is just by the way: I happened to see "My name is Khan" quite by chance...and I'm so glad I saw it.
The film has been recognised for its beautiful message...and I think it is quite an enlightening one.

Friday, January 7, 2011

Made peace with my tormentors

I have given up. Just can't believe they have beaten me on my home ground. I had no idea how such small and sweet-looking creatures could trick me, dictate their own terms and get away with their "dadagiri". 

They came into my life so gradually that I became aware of their presence when it had already become menacing and unbearable. 

My very first memories of this apparently harmless creature is when as a little girl I had seen scores and scores of them at the Gateway Of India in Bombay . 
The sea used to be comparatively clean and beautiful then, the sky usually clear. 
A cluster of pigeons would often sit picking grains from the ground, which people would scatter around as a gesture of charity precisely to feed them. 

Superstition has it that feeding pigeons supposedly brings in good fortune. 

Even a slight distraction in this activity would make all of them fly at once. 
That used to be such an awesome sight. 

Many years later I saw my nephew feeding a pigeon on his window sill daily. His mother used to keep a stock of the grain that was preferred by this pigeon. It used to come every morning and get thoroughly pampered. 

On another occassion, late one morning I hurriedly opened my door to frantic ringing of the door bell. A boy about ten or twelve was standing in front of me, worry written all over his face. He told me that he lives on the second floors , and that a pigeon had fallen from his balcony into mine. 
I moved aside to let him in and find the victim . The boy knew exactly where to find the bird, as I went after him through the passage to the kitchen. 
The bird lay quiet and vulnerable in a corner.
The boy took him up tenderly, ran a hand affectionately on its soft plumage, thanked me and left taking the pigeon with him

Messengers of peace and love, I always placed pigeons on the highest humane pedestal. For me they were the epitome of harmlessness, innocence, peace and love ... untill of course I saw their "true colour" ... 
Darkish gray ...  😊😊😊 !!! 

Change of my heart began when the potted plants in my balcony began to bloom and blossom. Initially I did not take the pecking on my favourite Aloe Vera seriously. 
But it was too late to save the plant by the time I took the pigeon-menace seriously. 
My healthy medicinal plant had been ruined. Badly pecked and grievously mutilated as these heartless birds tried to make a home for themselves in that lush green bulk. 

Now they had invited my dislike 

I relocated the Aloe Vera. 
But every pot in the balcony could not be relocated. 

Besides, they were all over ... 
They strolled in casually to enjoy the warmth if my living room . 
They would come and sit araam se behind me while I typed comments on Facebook. 
I found them sitting on the sofa one morning, comfortable and cozy. 
They often listened to the songs on Youtube with me 😊😊😊
 
And then they got real close ... !!!
It was a cold morning and inadvertently I had overslept. 
A pigeon couple came in and sat on my razai. 
They could have given me a Good Morning kiss had I not woken up a bit fearful of what was moving over me ... !!!!!!!

Imagine my screams of horror when I saw the two of them actually perched on me !!! 
Hearing my screams, they must have got confused and scared too
Suddenly they started fluttering and flying here and there in the room ... and then thankfully they flew out of the window ...

I changed the curtains in my house. 
Got rather heavy ones which the pigeons could not move ... Or so I thought ... 

But my plants were still in danger. They would grow well for some time and then these annoying creatures would take their pick. 

Meanwhile the curtains were no big deterrent either. And one day I found a whole lot of twigs behind one of the curtains. I was about to question my home helper about it when like lightening , truth hit me ... 
Oh! God I was terrified as I realised what it meant ... 
They looked like some morbid stuff which I was honestly afraid to touch. 
But I also had to get rid of it really quickly. 
So holding my breath, and looking the other way, I threw the entire bunch out of the window. 

What I had thrown out was the home of a by-now painfully controversial figure in my life. 

So did I feel any remorse...? 

I sure did. 

But closed the window tightly (perhaps symbolic of turning a deaf ear to my conscience !!!) only to open when I had to water the two potted plants kept there , one of the two being Aloe Vera, which I had kept there to "show" my might and "dare" my tormentors. 

One morning as I opened the window to water the plants a ghoulish bunch of twigs in the Aloe Vera made me feel sick and nauseated. Without a second thought I pulled it away. And with as much anger and force as I could summon from within me, threw it far away. 

But the next morning it was back. 
Again ... and again ... 
My cold war with them went on for a while ... 

And then ... 
I gave up. 
I made peace with my tormentors. 
I always keep that window closed , at times curtains drawn too (to keep our respective privacies ... 😊😊😊

Perhaps I didn't want to be reminded of how silently I surrendered !!!

As a consolation , I told myself I was being stupid fighting with pigeons ... what do we have in common anyway ... and what can those helpless souls do if God has made them that way ... 

Poor things ! they don't even have the mind to think rationally 
Why else would they not make a cute nest for themselves in some nice shady tree so that their home is not so mercilessly devastated even before it is fully made. 

We had seen pics of them as symbols of peace with a tender olive branch in their beak 
They have been romanticised in Hindi film songs and by Urdu poets as carriers of love messages , but their own life is full of stress and struggle as they roam about eternally in search of a dignified existence. 

And now there's an egg in my Aloe Vera !!!!! 
I am amazed to see how that small white thing changed everything. 

Although I still do not like the pigeons, I love the way it guards that egg every moment of the day. So much so that it makes me guilty when I open the window to water the plants and this Mother-Pigeon has to fly away. 
I hope she understands why I just cannot help but disturb her.

Sharing a pic of another plant that was totally ruined because I preferred to save the eggs of a pigeon 😘💝💐💐💐